Postcards from Hell
by Toodleoo
Summary: Hermione desperately needs to flee her coworker: one obnoxious, controlling, know-it-all Severus Snape. It's a good thing that her pal Luna Lovegood-Malfoy runs a travel agency... and it's a bad thing that Luna's husband Lucius works by her side.
1. The Speakeasy

_A/N: This one's going to be around 16 short chapters. It's set somewhere around now, which would put Hermione in her mid-30s. Rated for the swears and some __sexytimes in later chapters__. It's a gift for MyWitch, who is a fabulous artist and pal of mine, and who finds the thought of Luna and Lucius together hilarious._

* * *

**Postcards from Hell**

**1: The Speakeasy**

* * *

Hermione looked over her right shoulder, wary.

Nobody was watching.

And then glanced over her left to find the alleyway empty.

Afternoons in Diagon Alley were fairly quiet, which was why Hermione had planned her visit to Luna's for two o'clock on a Tuesday. There were no crowds of people rushing to and fro, no Ministry employees out for their lunch breaks, and no children running amok, fueled by Florean Fortescue's ice cream concoctions.

When she was sure that the coast was clear, Hermione reached up to the elaborate brass knocker shaped like a faun and tugged twice on his beard. 'The hinkypunk flies at midnight,' she whispered, feeling like an idiot.

The faun's eyes snapped open as he came to life. 'Why does he fly so late?' he asked, his voice a high-pitched whistle.

'He missed his train,' she replied, saying the words she'd memorised earlier that morning.

'Why did he miss the train?' the faun asked.

Hermione took out a crumpled business card to double-check on the wording of the next phrase. She blushed. 'He was submitting to the… to the sexual dominance of the niffler.'

The faun gave her a shrewd look and nodded, and the door swung open wide.

* * *

'I have had enough! I cannot take another _minute_ with that man!' Hermione declared, flopping onto the worn leather chaise in Luna's office. She stared at the ceiling, charmed to look like a perfect summer day on a deserted island in the Caribbean, all happy clouds and sunlight. The charm extended down onto the walls, with palm trees swaying in the gentle breezes, and Hermione could almost feel the salty air on her skin.

You really had to hand it to those Ravenclaws. Their wand work was impeccable.

If not for the bright red desk Luna was sitting behind, the wooden floorboards beneath their feet, and a bulletin board crammed with postcards from clients' trips abroad, Hermione would never have known she was still in London.

'Can you get me out of the country today, Luna? I don't care where I go.'

Luna spoke into the end of her wand. 'Gerald, could you bring us some tea? A large pot, please.'

'And biscuits?' Hermione questioned, a hopeful smile on her face.

'And biscuits, Gerald,' Luna said, relaying the message to the older gentleman at reception.

'Schmarfenplagrinenten,' came the garbled reply from the geranium on Luna's desk. For the life of her, Hermione had no idea what Gerald had reported about the status of biscuits, but Luna clearly understood.

The odd intercom seemed to suit the place.

'No, the chocolate ones,' she insisted. 'And the ginger ones with the lemon creme, if Lucius hasn't eaten them all.'

_Lucius Malfoy._

Or Lucius Lovegood-Malfoy, as he was now legally recognised in the Wizengamot.

Hermione was still baffled as to how that relationship had unfolded, but Luna seemed quite happy with the man. The couple celebrated their eighth anniversary earlier in the summer, and their exclusive off-the-books travel agency was going gangbusters as far as Hermione could tell.

The business card Luna had given her was printed with the phrase _The Holiday You Need, Not the Holiday You Want_ in turquoise ink. On the back, Luna had scribbled out the password script that Hermione needed to get past the door knocker.

She had booked two holidays with Luna in the last year, and they had both been surreally perfect: one trip had been to Darjeeling so she could wander the foothills of the Himalayas, and the other was to a remote village in Uruguay. It was like the heavens had opened up both times, showering her with beautiful experiences that opened her eyes to the truths of the world and provided her with crystalline clarity about the meaning of life and the harmony of the planets…

Or whatever.

All the warm, fuzzy feelings were good while they lasted, but the glow inevitably wore off when Hermione found herself back at work with Severus Snape, International Man of Misery.

Which is why she found herself back in Luna's office for a third time, begging her old friend to arrange another Portkey to somewhere—_anywhere_—so she could have some much needed respite from her insane work schedule and her arrogant arse of a colleague.

'Lucius picked a doozy of a password this time,' Hermione said, scooting to the edge of her seat.

'Yes, he did,' Luna said, petting the leaves of the geranium on her desk. 'At first, he wanted something about vintages of French wine. My proposal was about the mating habits of the lethifold, which he claimed was far too scandalous to use in mixed company. We ended up with a compromise.'

Hermione frowned. Here she thought Lucius was the provocative one, but it seemed that he was actually a bit of a prude. And then she just had to know—'Say, Luna? How _do_ lethifolds mate?'

Luna leaned back in her chair, a serene smile spreading across her face. 'Preparatory cunnilingus. Lots and lots of cunnilingus.'

Hermione coughed once or twice as Gerald marched into the office with a silver tray filled with their tea things and a pile of nibbles. He didn't blush or look startled in the least by these words, and Hermione had the uncanny feeling that he wouldn't even look up if Prince Charles turned cartwheels through the room wearing a latex bodysuit.

'Libidinous lethifolds like licking… like licking…' Luna said, her voice drifting off. 'I can't remember the rest.'

'Oh, well,' Hermione said, pouring herself a cuppa, 'if you—'

'Like licking lethifold labia!' Luna said, interrupting her. 'That was what I wanted the password to be. _Libidinous lethifolds like licking lethifold labia!_'

'Er…' Hermione said, reaching for words while reaching for a spoon to stir her tea. 'Er… right. Your use of alliteration is superb.'

'And it's biologically accurate as well. I had another good password about cockatrices last month,' Luna said. 'But again, Lucius was uncomfortable, so we changed that one to a few lines about furniture salesmen.'

Hermione shrugged, unable to find the connection.

'Now, then,' Luna said, 'When do you want to leave, and what has Severus done this time?'

* * *

_A/N: I adore Luna._


	2. The Portkey

**2: The Portkey**

* * *

That was how Hermione found herself holding a Portkey in her living room, waiting for the cuckoo clock on the wall to strike eight. Her bags were packed, exactly meeting the specifications Luna had given her: sporty winter clothes for seven days, some things for lounging around a fireside, and the smallest bikini she could muster.

The Portkey itself was a small copper cube, presumably designed by Luna.

Or was it Lucius?

Or both.

It, like Luna's office down at the travel agency, had some impressive spells woven into it the metal. If you tapped the cube once, it gave you the weather report for the day. Pinch one of its corners and you received restaurant recommendations in the area. And the failsafe switch—squeeze the cube tightly for an immediate Portkey back home to England.

At some point in the vacation, the little Portkey sprung open and took a photograph—moving, of course—of the client living it up abroad. This was turned into a postcard to mail back to loved ones. _Wish you were here_, and all that tosh. Hermione had used this little function to pepper Harry and Ron with endless photos of herself from her trips, and had even sent a few back to Luna to thank her for organizing everything.

Then the cuckoo started to crow, and the clock turned eight.

Hermione felt the telltale tug at her navel, and she relaxed her body as much as she could so she wouldn't get woozy on the ride. Finally the wretched feeling of being tugged through space ended, and Hermione tumbled out on a bank of soft snow. She looked up to the luminescence of a full moon highlighting the snow all around her. A short distance away, she saw a dozen tiny buildings and a central wooden lodge with a sign bearing more vowels and umlauts than she'd ever seen in one place before.

So it wasn't Russia.

Hermione picked herself up, dusted the snow from her coat, and trudged over to the lodge to check herself in.

A blonde woman behind the desk greeted her. 'Hei!'

Hermione faltered. 'Er… Hello?'

'Ah! A Brit, I see,' she said, speaking flawless English with a lilting accent. 'Welcome to the inn. May I take your name?'

After reassuring Hermione that she had a luxury cabin to herself for the week, the receptionist handed over a set of key cards and explained where to find equipment and trails for nordic skiing, when to look out for the Northern Lights, and how to add more wood to the lodge's sauna.

It sounded perfect.

A whole week of skiing, catered meals, and magical evening skies. Seven days without listening to the Healers at St Mungo's demanding that she develop another potion for an emergency case. One hundred and sixty-eight hours without Snape needling her about her lack of professionalism in the office or watching him scare the pants off their assistant David O'Reilly. Ten thousand and eighty minutes without O'Reilly accidentally blowing up their experiments because of the way Snape loomed over his shoulder incessantly and barked at him for trying to show off.

Besides, they were told it would take at least a few days to rebuild the lab space, so it wasn't like Hermione could have gone into work even if she'd wanted to.

A brief walk through a forest of birch trees led Hermione to her temporary home away from home. It wasn't terribly late, but she was exhausted. Hermione collapsed onto her mattress, surrounded in a cocoon of warmth and comfort with the cosiness of a thousand drowsy kittens, and she slept the dreamless sleep of the just.

* * *

The next morning, she was finally in a state to take it all in. Luna's magical instincts were spot on, as it was beautiful and simple and peaceful. All light woods and crisp white linens, with a private jacuzzi tub and a kitchenette stocked with berries and smoked fish and something labelled as viilithat she'd guessed was fermented milk. She tucked into a hearty helping of the stuff, fixing herself a cup of coffee and flipping on the television news while she pretended to understand Finnish.

Hermione then changed into something appropriate and went off in hunt of those skis. When she found them hanging in the entryway, she plucked them off the walls. Clearly expensive, they weighed almost nothing. The buckles and shoes were self-explanatory, and a waterproof trail map was next to a pile of extra woolens for warmth. She suited up, pocketed the map, and headed out into the forest in pursuit of nothing in particular.

After an hour _zhuzhing_ over trails, she found herself on a frozen lake in the most beautiful silence she'd ever not heard.

It wasn't quite noon, and the light was already changing. It really was extraordinary, this place, and Hermione made a mental note to ask the receptionist just how far north she was. With only a few hours of direct sunlight during the day, Hermione suspected she was close to the Arctic circle.

After another hour or so, skiing peacefully and listening to the occasional bird call or the deep, low crack of the ice across the lake, she headed back towards her cabin, planning to curl up beside a fire with a good novel and whatever they were serving for lunch. She slipped off the skis and toed off her boots, shaking the snow out of her hair as she holed up in her cabin once more.

A quick shower later, now draped in a warm robe, Hermione went to the kitchen, where a hot meal was waiting for her. Bless room service, she thought. It turned out to be seasoned potatoes and hot cabbage rolls, followed by a kind of a sweet pancake. This marvelous meal accompanied her literary trip to a dystopian future in a bleak read from one of her favourite twenty-first-century authors.

All was well.

Except…

She glanced out the window.

No, it couldn't be.

_Could it?_

Hermione could have sworn that she saw Snape walking to another one of the cabins.

Except that it couldn't be him. Sure, the nose looked the same, and he had the same lean figure. But this man was wearing one of those ludicrous knitted caps with a pom pom flopping about on top, a wild fuchsia and orange one at that, and Severus was far too suave to wear something so over-the-top in public. He was all tailored blacks and greys, and this colourful cap was a bit mad even by Harry's dubious sartorial standards.

Maybe the fermented milk thing she'd devoured had gone turned. Yes, that seemed much more likely. She was simply imagining things.

After all, there was no way that Snape was _here_.

* * *

_To zhuzh = to glide effortlessly over the snow in a pair of nordic skis. I zhuzh, you zhuzh, he/she/it zhuzhes._


	3. The Sauna

**3: The Sauna**

* * *

Later that evening, Hermione decided it was time to hit up the sauna.

When in Rome, as they said. Or when in Finland, she supposed.

First she downed a few glasses of water in anticipation of all the sweating that was about to happen. Best to be prepared, she thought. Then she donned her blue bikini and wrapped herself in the oversized robe from her cabin. She slipped into her boots, grabbed a linen towel, and dashed through the snow from her cabin to the lodge's sauna. Inside there were several wooden shelves for storage by the door, and then came a wall of showers. After folding her robe and setting her footwear on a low shelf, she poked her head into the hot room.

Though it was dimly lit, she quickly realised that she was the only one wearing anything more than a smile. Everyone was sitting on their towels completely naked, so she wriggled out of the string bikini and folded it up in hers, making herself at home on the lowest of the three levels of seating, at the furthest point from the old iron stove that was heating the place.

After all, she was new to this steaming process. She wasn't going to push herself on her first time out.

Hermione glanced around at the sheer variety of bodies. A grey-haired older couple with sagging bits was perched on the highest level, chatting quietly with nary a drop of sweat to be seen on either of them. What looked like a few generations of the blondest family she'd ever seen were relaxed in the corner in silence; the Malfoys were swarthy by comparison. A few men around her own age were on the middle level, each with a glass in hand that seemed to contain either water or a rather pale beer. The sausages wrapped in tin foil on the stove appeared to belong to them as well, and they were arguing over something in Finnish or Swedish or another language Hermione didn't speak. One was quite fit, and in another setting, she probably would have enjoyed a bit of a flirtation, but it didn't seem like that was going to happen in the sauna. It was just a line that nobody seemed interesting in crossing.

Which is probably why the nudity that would have bothered her in London now seemed_ right._

Draping her body on one of the lowest steps in the sauna, Hermione dozed in and out of awareness of what was going on around her as she breathed in the hot air, letting her lungs adjust. The couple walked out together hand in hand; a man with curly red hair everywhere entered. An enormous older woman with long white hair manned the stove, pouring more water over it periodically for a little more steam.

At the fifteen minute mark, Hermione zipped outside to scoop up armfuls of fresh, powdery snow. Biting her tongue, she patted herself down with the stuff. Then she ran back inside, took the briefest lukewarm shower she could manage, and reentered the sauna.

The old woman came over with a bundle of leafy twigs in hand, offering them to Hermione. 'You want a_ vihta_, Englishwoman?'

Hermione fought to keep the perplexed look off her face. 'Yes, please,' she said, reaching for the branches. 'What do I—'

Before she had a chance to ask what to do with the branches, the woman began thwacking Hermione's back with the fragrant birch.

Gods, it was perfect.

She felt invigorated and deliciously lethargic all at the same time, and her skin was already so much softer than it had ever been before.

_Luna had done it again._

She considered the shop at reception, stocked with linen towels, bath scrubs, and other jars of scented goops. Hermione would have to send her friend a thank you gift along with the regular postcard this—

But then the door opened.

And a man in a towel entered.

A man who looked_ familiar._

Because he was the same ornery bastard she'd left behind in England just yesterday morning, and what the fuck was he doing on her magical vacation and in her Finnish sauna?

Shocked, he dropped his towel as he stepped inside from the cold.

Hermione slapped her arms across her tits, shielding herself from his view. Gods, she was _naked_, wasn't she? Suddenly, inexplicably naked. And so was he, which she realised as she took in his unclothed torso for the first time in her life. He wasn't muscular by any means, but there wasn't an ounce of extra anything on the man.

While he scrambled to cover himself, her excellent peripheral vision picked up on the fact that it was, indeed, quite cold outside. Even with that taken in consideration, she could tell that the todger-nose correlation worked in his favour.

He whispered her name. 'Granger? Why the fuck are you here on my holiday?'

The nerve of that man, acting like _she_ was the interloper here. 'Severus Engelbert Aloysius Snape!' she cried, waggling a finger in his face, 'this is my holiday, not yours.'

He frowned as he climbed up to the highest level in the sauna, where it was hottest. 'My middle name is Tobias, woman. Have you lost your mind?'

'I most certainly have not!' She huffed in defiance, and the red-headed man took this lull in the conversation to sneak out the door. 'I am angry with you. As for the middle names? With the way you act at work, you have earned yourself the worst ones I can think of, Severus Hildebrand Leslie Snape. Besides, this is still _my_ holiday, and moreover, it is my holiday from _you_.'

'Why would you need that?' he snapped. 'If not for my illustrious presence, you would have no place in which to work. O'Reilly would have blown the place to smithereens. I saved your fucking life yesterday, Granger. If you need a holiday from anyone, it's O'Reilly. That moron nearly killed us all.'

She shook her head. 'You're seriously blaming him for the accident? He is absolutely fine when you're not around, no mistakes with any of the assays or experiments I've given him.'

'So that was _my_ fault?' Severus asked, his voice as cold as the icicles hanging from the roof of the lodge.

The rest of the sauna occupants scarpered off then, grabbing their sausages as they headed out, save the ancient woman tending the stove. She wasn't going to let an couple of bickering English tourists oust her before she was ready.

Hermione raised her chin in defiance. 'You know it was. There wouldn't have been explosion if you hadn't been such a bear. I've gotten used to the way you second-guess everything I do, but not everyone can tolerate working with you. I don't have a problem with O'Reilly. He doesn't have a problem with me.'

Snape scoffed, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

So Hermione cast the last blow. 'It's just _you_. You are the problem.'

Severus stood up, gathering his towel around his waist. 'You are willfully obtuse, Granger.'

And with that, he was off.

The old woman looked at her and raised her eyebrow. 'Hänellä on tiukka peppu.'

Hermione just nodded. 'You can say that again.'

She gathered up her bikini and her belongings, ran to her cabin, and tried to fall asleep. Somehow the sheets were scratchy to her skin and the warmth from the fireplace didn't seep into her bones as it had earlier.

Her holiday was officially ruined.

When the sun rose and she was still exhausted, unable to sleep for more than a few short bursts through the night, she Summoned all her possessions back into her suitcase, gripped the Portkey in her fist, and spun away for home.

* * *

_A/N: I'm giving this one to everybody early because I am RUUUUUUUNNING on adrenaline. ARYA FUCKING STARK! (Oh! And if that means nothing to you, just ignore it and pretend I never said a word.)_


	4. The Puffskein

_A/N: First off, __If you're at all curious about what the old Finnish woman told Hermione, it was this: "He has a firm bottom!" __Hermione didn't know that when she replied, "You can say that again."_

_Wow! There was... not a lot of enthusiasm when Severus showed up last chapter. I was surprised, since I thought people would like his naked sauna chat with Hermione. Er... so here's a chapter with a character you all seem to prefer?_

* * *

**4: The Puffskein**

* * *

Luna had taken it it in stride when Hermione showed up at her office the next morning. 'You're back early,' she stated, dressed in a woven caftan as she reclined on a lounge chair in the corner.

Hermione took a seat across from Luna's desk, expecting her friend to join her so they could get down to brass tacks. When the blonde didn't budge from her spot, didn't cross to the more official place of authority within the room, Hermione swiveled her chair around to face her friend. 'Yes, I am. There was no rest to be found there. Not when—'

'Where did you go, if you don't mind my asking?' Luna said, stretching languidly like a cat getting up from a sunny spot after a nap.

Silence filled the room as Hermione considered the implications of Luna's words. 'You... You don't know? You don't know where you just sent me?'

Luna shook her head. '_I_ don't send people anywhere, Hermione. The magic does. I don't even know where people go until I receive a postcard. You didn't send a postcard this time, therefore I do not know where the magic sent you.'

Hermione paused. 'Really? That's... that's...' She shook her head, befuddled. 'Then what do you do exactly? I always thought you booked the hotels and the transportation, arranged for meals, et cetera, et cetera. Surely you need to know where we're going in order to line everything up?'

'I do perform all those tasks,' Luna said, rising to stand. She continued a strange series of stretches and twists from there. 'For each location, I organise a number of hotels, inns, restaurants, and whatnot. I do it all in advance. However, I believe that client privacy is paramount, and I trust that the magic will transport people wherever they need to go. Besides, you mentioned rest. A holiday is not necessarily about rest. Sometimes you don't need rest, but something else entirely.'

Harrumphing in her chair, Hermione grumbled, 'If it's not rest that your magic thinks I need, I think your magic is—'

'So where did you go?' Luna asked, interrupting her before she had the chance to say something rude.

'Finland. A little inn in a forest in the north.'

'At Pallas-Yllästunturi? I adore that place,' Luna said.

'You've been?' Hermione asked.

Nodding, Luna said, 'Lucius and I were sent there two summers ago. The midnight sun was exhilarating and the private sauna was just what we needed. We found that if you keep the temperature lower than a traditional sauna, you can maintain a tantric connection for hours with—'

'A private sauna?' Hermione asked. 'Why didn't my cabin have a private sauna?'

Luna shrugged. 'The magic must have known that you didn't need it. Lucius and I, on the other hand, did. The Finns have a statement about behaving in a sauna the same way you behave in church. It wouldn't be polite to have tantric sex in front of others if they weren't expecting it, and for some reason, Lucius doesn't like to be naked in public. I respect his choice.'

'I could have desperately used a little privacy,' Hermione said. 'I was forced into a public sauna with complete strangers—'

'Marvelous! Finns are lovely—'

'Yes, they are, but how on earth did Severus Snape find a cabin at the exact same lodge in the middle of nowhere, Luna? Finland! Who travels to Finland in the wintertime?' Hermione asked. She paced the length of the room as she stared at the beach paradise on the walls, taunting her with its perfect palm leaves blowing in the wind. _Clearly_, she thought,_ there's only one explanation for how Snape showed up to bother her_. 'Did he come see you about a holiday, too?'

She shook her head. 'Severus has never seen me about his bookings.'

Hermione was at the end of her rope. 'You didn't plan this?'

Luna grabbed her wand and spoke into its pointy end. 'Gerald, we're going to need some chocolate and a little whisky with the biscuits today.'

A distorted honking that Hermione assumed was the receptionist's reply came from the geranium.

Luna spoke again. 'Yes, one of the bottles that Lucius hides from his clients. One that's old enough to order its own whisky. And some papaya juice, please.' Then Luna looked up at her friend. 'Hermione, I think you should know that I never direct anything at all. That's not how this system works. I am merely a conduit for forces greater than I.'

Hermione flopped down on the chaise, draping an arm over her eyes. 'Then how did this happen?'

A rap at the door alerted them to the whisky delivery.

'Thank you, Gerald,' Luna said, accepting the bottle from the older man so he could set a tray of nibbles down on the coffee table. She cracked open the bottle, poured three fingers for Hermione, and passed it over along with a chocolate frog.

Gerald let himself out again.

'Bless you,' Hermione said, sipping the whisky slowly.

'How did it happen, you asked?' Luna opened a drawer and pulled out a strange brass globe with runes inscribed along its edges. 'Magic. A variety of magics, actually...' Her voice took on an instructive tone as she began to describe the combination of Arithmancy, Divination, and geography used to determine where each client's Portkey should deliver them.

It was the kind of information Hermione would have found utterly fascinating had she not been holding a grudge against this inanimate object for ruining her peace. She made a mental note to ask Luna more about it at a later date. As it was, she downed her whisky in one, swallowing hard, and she threw back another chocolate frog. She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. 'Luna, I love you—_I really do_—but I only have five days left before I have to report back to St Mungo's. Can we expedite this Portkey so I'm out of here within the hour?'

Without a word, Luna opened another drawer and pulled out a pale blue Puffskein. She walked around her desk, pressed the fluff ball into Hermione's arms, and drew her into a hug. 'Of course.'

The Puffskein, pleasantly warm, began to purr as it nestled into a spot on Hermione's lap. She was already beginning to feel a little bit better, and the anger and frustration she had felt was slipping away.

Luna laid a hand on the brass globe, which seemed to glow under her fingertips, and she turned to Hermione with a smile. 'You'll be out of England in no time. I can feel it already, Hermione—the magic is quite clear on what you need.'

* * *

_A/N: What does a puffskein eat? Does it use a litterbox? _


	5. The Second Portkey

_A/N: The Lakes of Patagonia? One of my favourite spots on earth. If you're ever lucky enough to spend time there in the summertime, you'll see why. If any of you readers are lucky enough to be from there yourself, just know that I'm jealous!_

* * *

**5: The Second Portkey**

* * *

It took twenty-four minutes for Luna's bronze globe to do its business.

Hermione had cuddled up on the chaise lounge with a half-dozen pastel-coloured Puffskeins, nursing a cocktail that Luna had whipped up with the papaya juice and a little whisky, just waiting for everything to be taken care of. Then the globe began to rattle and shake, and after a minute or so, the top half swung open to reveal another one of the travel cubes.

Picking it up gingerly, Luna pressed it to her forehead. 'You'll need summer clothes, Hermione. Include some rain gear or an umbrella, too, and make sure to pack your swimsuit. One warmer jumper for evenings, maybe one or two smart dresses, but otherwise, pretty casual.'

'Where am I going?' Hermione asked. She wriggled out from the pile of sentient fluff and handed Luna her empty glass.

'I told you,' Luna replied with a light laugh, 'I honestly do not know. You'll find out before I do.'

'So you know what the climate is like... how?'

'Listen,' Luna whispered. She pressed the cube to Hermione's forehead.

Nothing.

Hermione waited for a moment, just in case something was going to happen.

It didn't.

'You see?' Luna asked, placing the cube in Hermione's hand and wrapping her fingers around it. 'Summer clothes. Summer and rain.'

Hermione just nodded. 'Er... yeah. Sure, Luna. Now when does it leave? How much time do I have to pack?'

Frowning, the blonde asked, 'It didn't tell you?'

Hermione shook her head.

'Hmm...' Luna hummed. 'How odd. It told me it was leaving at 10 o'clock, so that gives you thirty minutes or so to go home and get ready.'

* * *

After a whirlwind packing session, Hermione grabbed the cube and felt the the magic pulling her body through space. Before she had time to contemplate where she was off to, she felt herself land in a dark, quiet room.

Groping in the dark, she felt a door handle. When she stepped out into the light, she saw she was in a hotel corridor. She followed all the signs in Spanish to find the reception desk, where a kindly older gentleman demonstrated great patience with her lackluster language skills. He gave her a room key, a booklet of maps, information about a musical concert later that afternoon, and instructions that she should head to the dining room before the breakfast service closed.

She followed the room numbers up two flights of stairs to her suite, still uncertain of where exactly she was.

When she arrived at #31, she pushed open the door. In the entry stood a bicycle with a woven basket and a small silver bell that made a satisfying _brrrrrring!_ when she tested it out. She dropped her bag on the bench and continued inside, where she was greeted by a wall of windows framing an jaw-dropping view of a deep blue lake, far larger than the Black Lake at Hogwarts. On the far side of the lake stood a volcano, perfectly symmetrical and capped with snow. In the background stood more volcanoes, much smaller for the distance, and as she glanced around the lakeshore, she saw a handful of little villages and resorts here and there, the occasional sandy beach. Everything was lush and green, and Hermione couldn't wait to get out and explore it all.

Her stomach growled.

So she decided to follow the receptionist's advice to snag something to eat. The dining room was on the ground floor, with half the tables inside and the other half outside on a veranda facing the water. It was almost empty, so Hermione grabbed a table on the lakefront, setting her handbag and a shawl down on a chair. She went back through the buffet, plating up eggs and grilled vegetables, a small cup of blueberries.

When she returned to her seat, a waiter approached her to take her beverage order. "Te gustaría el café, el té o el mate?" he asked.

'Mate, por favor,' she replied, delighted that she still remembered the basics of the language. She'd had mate on a previous trip and loved everything about it: the earthy flavour, the gourd it came in and the little silver straw for sipping, the slight buzz of energy it gave her for hours after consuming the stuff.

Nibbling on her breakfast, she opened up the packets of information, making decisions about what to do first. The first map was simply labelled "Los Lagos"—the lakes. _Well, yes_, she thought. _Obviously_. The second map was much more helpful, as "Patagonia chilena" was printed in enormous type over the whole thing. So she was in South America, then.

It seemed that the afternoon concert was held in the next village over, which was a doable distance by bike. There were waterfalls on the map, too, but Hermione wasn't sure if she was up to a bicycle ride of over thirty kilome—

_Fuck._

All she could see was the back of his head, but she was certain it was Snape. Sitting at the far end of the restaurant, black hair just longer than his shoulders, a few greys sprinkled here and there.

_Damnit, Luna_, she thought, silently cursing out her friend.

Staring out at the water, but facing the east. A white Oxford shirt, rolled up to his sleeves, slim grey trousers. Thankfully Snape hadn't noticed her, so she still had the opportunity to run for it before—

'Mate, signora,' the waiter said, bringing her drink as loudly as a herd of stampeding guanacos. Snape looked over and—

Her breath caught in her chest.

_It wasn't him._

She let out a sigh she didn't even know she was holding.

_Thank fuck_, Hermione thought to herself. Relief washed over her like a physical caress.

The stranger noticed her looking at him, so he lifted his mate gourd in a kind of salute, smiling at her.

She grinned, lifting her gourd in response.

And they exchanged a sort of a conversation through their eyes alone, wordlessly agreeing that the land around them was beautiful, that the sunshine was inviting, and that they were lucky to be there.

Convinced she was blushing like a school girl, Hermione looked away, trying to occupy herself with her plans for the day lest she do something interminably clumsy in front of a handsome stranger, like drop fresh salsa down her blouse or spit her mate across the table. She'd never done terribly well with men, and her nerves were known to get the better of her when they were acting up.

It had been a good long while since she'd been out on a date.

After all, the last man she'd been out with was Viktor, back when they were still doing their on-again, off-again dating from afar. Well, it was more like intermittent shagging. And this man at her boutique hotel looked a great deal like Viktor: unconventionally attractive, with sort of a largish nose but intelligent eyes, skin markedly paler than most of the other people she'd seen at her hotel thus far. He was probably ten or so years older than she was, but he was lean and fit.

Merlin knew she needed a distraction from dwelling on Severus Snape and his overwhelming disapproval of everything she touched. It was depressing beyond belief that even as an accomplished Potioneer and researcher, with numerous publications to her name and multiple life-saving potions in circulation at St Mungo's, Snape still thought she was beneath him. There had been moments in their work together when Hermione had convinced herself that he was seeing her as an equal, when he seemed to be looking at her and seeing someone he respected. She'd even convinced herself that she caught him smiling at her once or twice.

But their working environment had grown so tense in recent months, with Snape snapping at her whenever she started a new project. At least she had O'Reilly with her now in the lab; he was always encouraging her and supporting her decisions, and he was eager to run any of the assays she'd designed to help her out. He'd technically been hired as the lab assistant for both herself and Snape, but nobody would blame a person for avoiding Severus when he was in a mood.

She took another sip of the bitter drink, reminding herself that she was here for this very reason: to stop thinking about work and to take care of herself for a change.

_Maybe this Chilean man could be her holiday fling._

And when she looked up again, he was already gone.

* * *

_A/N: Someone's in denial. Also? It's fascinating for me to run two stories at the same time to see how differently people respond. For the record, more people prefer "Dirty Gertie" with a Severus-in-a-bingo-hall than this one with world travel and angry naked arguments in saunas!_


	6. The Cake

Vaguely disappointed that the smiling man had disappeared, Hermione headed back to her room. It was a small hotel, she told herself. If things were meant to be, she would surely run into him somewhere else on the property: at the bar, perhaps, or in one of those wood-fired hot tubs she'd spotted earlier on the deck.

She changed into trousers and grabbed the bicycle, loading up its basket with her bag and a map of the region. Cautiously, she wheeled the bike to the elevator, headed to the ground level, pulled out some cash from the machine in the hotel lobby, and went on her way. Deciding to follow the advice she'd been given, she steered her bicycle east so she could go hear that concert she'd been told about.

The first thing she had to do was make it down a rather steep hill to the lake front, which she told herself was simple. Children rode bikes, after all. She climbed on, trying not to compare the metal frame to one of those idiotic broomsticks that Harry had tried to get her to enjoy. After all, they were nothing alike. Except for the long, narrow rail of the bicycle, which was even the same circumference as the Firebolt had thrown her on, and they were both brown, and death traps. She put it out of mind and pushed off, relatively wobble-free as she began the descent, but then she began picking up speed at an alarming rate. Things were still going well, though...

Until they weren't.

Which was how Hermione ended up in a flower bush filled with the most unusual hydrangeas she'd ever seen, all a deep, dark purple hue. And quite soft and squishable as flowers went. She thanked her lucky stars that she hadn't landed in a rose bush.

Only her pride bruised, she walked the bicycle the rest of the way through the hilly bits until she made it to flatter land.

Then she rode to the next village over.

It was lovely and quaint in a way that was almost too perfect. A lifetime in the United Kingdom had prepared to tolerate a certain amount of miserable weather, after all, and she wasn't psychologically prepared to deal with sunshine and warmth. The lakeshore had a sandy beach with a few ornate gazebos and wooden docks jutting out into the lake, oodles of families stretched out on towels, and stands selling fresh fruit and _helado_, or ice cream, wherever she went.

The concert hall was hard to miss, built as it was jutting out into the water with a copper roof, a modern design that was poetry in wood. She locked up her bicycle at one of the racks beside it.

She bought a ticket for the afternoon concert, which wouldn't begin for another hour or so. Deciding to practice her Spanish, she asked the woman at the box office, 'Qué... qué yo hacer... aqui en la ciudad? Er... _hoy_? Or, I think I mean... _ahora_?'

The woman smiled, taking pity on her as she answered in English. 'There is a restaurant across the street. They have the best kuchen in town—apples, cherries, our caramel manjar, even poppyseed, which is _kuchen de amapolas_. I would go there.'

A five-minute walk landed Hermione at the cake shop, absolutely jam-packed full of people huddled around tables, waiting in line, and just milling around chatting with others there. It took a moment or two for her to realise that queues didn't exist in this particular shop. An electronic board flashed "68" over and over again, and after a scan of the entryway, she found the red spool doling out numbered slips of paper. She snagged 85 and waited her turn like the Englishwoman she was.

When her number finally came up, she decided to test the most unusual thing on the menu. 'Kuchen de amapolas, por favor.'

Cake in hand—or _tart_ in hand, as it was more of a poppyseed custard in a baked shell—Hermione climbed the stairs to find a table.

And there he was.

Sitting at a tiny table near the only window in the place, the sunlight picking up a few grey strands of hair, the man from her hotel was there. He was so appealing to her, neatly dressed with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, totally engrossed in a brick of a book. Hermione couldn't quite make out the title, but the sheer size of the thing already filled her with confidence. This fellow was an intelligent man. She could just _tell_. Surely it was the complete works of Gabriela Mistral or Pablo Neruda or something else equally impressive.

She inched a little closer, surreptitiously trying to figure out what he was reading while she looked for an empty chair.

'Signora?'

She looked over. And wasn't it just her stupid luck! Another woman was leaving a table, spotted Hermione's search for a seat, and had to be politeabout it. Hermione knew she couldn't very well refuse her without a reason, so she forced a smile on her face and offered her thanks, even though she was now facing away from her mystery man. There was no way to angle her chair towards him without looking strange, so she just gave up, slumping in her chair.

She was thwarted by Chilean courtesy.

And she took a bite of the sweet, rich poppyseed tart, covered in fresh raspberries. Gods, it was _delicious_. She mentally calculated that an appropriate time to turn around and look at the man and his book was when she was halfway through her kuchen, so while she savored it, she listened to the chatter all around her.

Hermione liked the energy of the place, even if she only caught snippets of conversations. A word here, a phrase there... Sometimes she understood whole sentences. When she heard the clink of her fork on the plate, she looked down, realising she'd finished the whole thing. She hadn't noticed how quickly time had slipped away from her.

_What was time was it, anyway?_

Checking her watch, she saw that she only had eleven minutes until the concert began.

And that her Chilean man was already gone.

She scooted back across the street to the concert hall, found her seat, and pulled out the program. It was all chamber music, a double billing of a Rachmaninoff piano trio and a set of _cueca_ music, whatever that was.

The lights went down low, and a pianist, a violinist, and a cellist walked out to applause. Behind them, the stage curtains opened so all could see the lake and the volcano in the distance, and they began to play the melancholy trio. Hermione allowed herself to be carried by the music, by the thunder of the piano and the aching cries of the strings. Each movement flowed from the one before it, and Hermione was convinced she hadn't heard anything so lovely in years. Thunderous applause met the group as they ended the piece, and the house lights came up for a set change as stagehands shimmied chairs and music stands around.

Seven or eight rows ahead of her, Hermione spotted a head of dark hair, cropped at the shoulder.

It was _him._

And there was an empty seat beside him.

And the stagehands were still fiddling about with the chairs.

Noticing a few others taking their seats, people who arrived late and were held at the back of the theatre so they wouldn't interrupt the performers, Hermione made a decision. She got up, climbed over the people in her row, and marched down to the front. Then she climbed over an older couple and a family with noisy children, her concert program in hand. She made a show of looking at the numbers on the seats, as if to prove that it was her ticket forcing her closer to the man, rather than any interest of her own.

She sat beside him.

The house lights went down.

The performers walked out again, this time joined by a guitarist who looked like he was too young to drive and the hairiest man she'd ever seen on the accordion. The audience began to applaud again, and they took their bows. The piano dove into a rhythmic riff in a minor key, and—

'What the fuck are you doing here, Granger?' a familiar voice whispered beside her. 'Shouldn't you be skiing?'

* * *

_A/N: Anyone else a Neruda fan? How about cueca?_


End file.
